looked to Kicking Bird and the others. The Indian faces were blank, however, and when the
eyes of the cavalry officer and the woman who was two people came together again, they
were dancing with the laughter of an inside thing only they could share. There was no way
to adequately explain it to the others. It wasn't funny enough to go to the trouble.
Lieutenant Dunbar didn't keep the other pony. Instead he led it to Ten Bears's lodge and,
without knowing it, elevated his status even further. Comanche tradition called for the rich
to spread their wealth among the less fortunate. But Dunbar reversed that, and the old
man was left with the thought that this white man was truly extraordinary. That night, as
he was sitting around Kicking Bird's fire, listening to a conversation he didn't understand,
Lieutenant Dunbar happened to see Stands With A Fist. She was squatting a few feet away
and she was looking at him. Her head was tilted and her eyes seemed lost in curiosity.
Before she could look away, he tipped his head in the direction of the warrior's
conversation, put on an official face, and laid a hand against the side of his mouth.
“Correct,” he whispered loudly. She turned away quickly then. But as she did, he heard
the distinct sound of a giggle.
To stay any longer would have been useless. They had all the meat they could possibly
carry. Just after dawn everything was packed, and the column was on the march by
midmorning. With every travois piled high, the return trip took twice as long, and it was
getting dark by the time they reached Fort Sedgewick. A travois loaded with several
hundred pounds of jerked meat was brought up and unloaded into the supply house.
A flurry of good-byes followed, and with Lieutenant Dunbar watching from the doorway of
his sod hut, the caravan marched off for the permanent camp upstream. Without
forethought his eyes searched the semidarkness surrounding the long, noisy column for a
glimpse of Stands With A Fist. He couldn't find her.
The lieutenant had mixed feelings about being back. He knew the foil as his home, and
that was reassuring. It was good to pull his boots off, lie down on the pallet, and stretch
out unobserved. With half-closed eyes he watched the wick flicker in his lamp, and drifted
lazily in the quiet surrounding the hut. Everything was in its place, and so was he. Not
many minutes had passed, however, before he realized his right foot was jiggling with
aimless energy. What are you doing? he asked himself as he stilled the foot. You're not
nervous. It was only a minute more before he discovered the fingers of his right hand
drumming impatiently at his chest. He wasn't nervous. He was bored. Bored and lonely. In
the past he would have reached for his cigarette fixings, made a smoke, and put himself to
work puffing on it. But there was no more tobacco. Might as well have a look at the river,
he thought, and with that, got back into his boots and walked outside. He stopped, thinking
of the breastplate that was already so precious to him. It was draped over the army-issue
saddle he'd brought from the supply house. He went back inside, intending only to look at
it. Even in the weak light of the lamp it was shining brilliantly. Lieutenant Dunbar ran his
hand over the bones. They were like glass. When he picked it up there was a solid clack ing
as bone kissed bone. He liked the cool, hard feel of it on his bare chest. The “look at the
river” turned into a long walk. The moon was nearly full again and he didn't need the
lantern as he treaded lightly along the bluff overlooking the stream. He took his time,
pausing often to look at the river, or at a branch as it bent in the breeze, or at a rabbit
nibbling at a shrub. Everything was unconcerned with his presence. He felt invisible. It was
a feeling he liked. After almost an hour he turned around and started home. If someone
had been there as he passed by, they would have seen that, for all his lightness of step
and for all his attention to things other than himself, the lieutenant was hardly invisible.
Not during the time-, he stopped to look up at the moon. Then he would lift his head, turn
his body full into the face of its magical light, and the breastplate would flash the brightest
white, like an earthbound star.
An odd thing happened the next day. He spent the morning and part of the afternoon
trying to work around the place: re-sorting what was left of the supplies, burning a few
useless items, finding a protective way to store the meat, and making some journal
entries. All of it was done with half a heart. He thought of shoring up the corral again but
decided that he would just be manufacturing work for himself. He'd already made work for
himself. It made him feel rudderless. When the sun was well on its way down, he found
himself wanting to take another stroll on the prairie. It had been a blistering day.
Perspiration from doing his chores had soaked through his pants and produced patches of
prickly heat on his upper thighs. He could see no reason why this unpleasantness should
accompany his stroll. So, Dunbar walked onto the prairie without his clothes, hoping he
might run into Two Socks. Forsaking the river, he struck out across the immense
grasslands, which rippled in every direction with a life of its own. The grass had reached
the peak of its growth, in some places grazing his hip. Overhead the sky was filled with
fleecy, white clouds that stood against the pure blue like cutouts. On a little rise a mile
from the fort he lay down in the deep grass. With a windbreak on all sides, he soaked up
the last of the sun's warmth and stared dreamily at the slow-moving clouds. The lieutenant
turned on his side to bake his back. When he moved in the grass, a sudden sensation
swamped him, one he had not known for so long that at first he wasn't sure what he was
feeling. The grass above rustled softly as the breeze moved through it. The sun lay on his
backside like a blanket of dry heat. The feeling welled higher and higher and Dunbar
surrendered to it. His hand fell downward, and as it did, the lieutenant ceased to think.
Nothing guided his action, no visions or words or memories. He was feeling, and nothing
more. When he was conscious again he looked to the sky and saw the earth turning in the
movement of the clouds. He rolled onto his back, placed his arms straight against his sides
in the manner of a corpse, and floated awhile on his bed of grass and earth. Then he closed
his eyes and napped for half an hour. He tossed and turned that night, his mind flitting
from one subject to the next as though it were checking a long succession of rooms for a
place to rest. Every room was either locked or inhospitable until at last he came to the
place that, in the back of his mind, he knew he was bound for all the time. The room was
filled with Indians. The idea was so right that he considered making the trip to Ten Bears's
camp that instant. But it seemed too impetuous. I'll get up early, he thought. Maybe I'll
stay a couple of days this time. He woke with anticipation before dawn but steeled himself
against getting up, resisting the idea of a headlong rush to the village. He wanted to go
without rash expectations, and stayed in bed until it was light. When he had everything on
but his shirt, he picked it up and slid an arm through one of the sleeves. He paused then,
staring through the hut's window to assess the weather. It was already warm in the room,
probably warmer outside. It's going to be a scorcher, he thought as he pulled the sleeve off
his arm. The breastplate was hanging on a peg now, and as he reached for it, the
lieutenant realized that he'd wanted to wear it all along, regardless of the weather. He
packed the shirt away in a haversack, just in case. Two Socks was waiting outside. When
he saw Lieutenant Dunbar come through the door he took two or three quick steps back,
spun in a circle, sidestepped a few feet, and lay down, panting like a puppy. Dunbar cocked
his head quizzically.
“What's got into you?” The wolf lifted his head at the sound of the lieutenant's voice.
His look was so intent that it made Dunbar chuckle.
“You wanna go with me?” Two Socks jumped to his feet and stared at the lieutenant,
not moving a muscle.
“Well, c'mon then.”
Kicking Bind woke thinking of “Jun” down there at the white man's fort.
“Jun.” What an odd name. He tried to think of what it might mean. Young Rider
perhaps. Or Fast Rider. Probably something to do with riding. It was good to have the
season's first hunt ended. With the buffalo come at last, the problem of food had been
solved, and that meant he could return to his pet project with some regularity. He would
resume it this very day. The medicine man went to the lodges of two close advisers and
asked if they wanted to ride down there with him. He was surprised at how eager they
were to go but took it as a good sign nonetheless. No one was afraid anymore. In fact,
people seemed to be at ease with the white soldier. In the talk he'd heard the last few days
there were even expressions of fondness for him. Kicking Bird rode out of camp feeling
especially good about the day to come. Everything had gone well with the early stages of
his plan. The cultivation was finally complete. Now he could get down to the real business
of investigating the white race.
Lieutenant Dunbar figured he'd made close to four miles. He had expected the wolf to
be long gone at the two-mile mark. At three miles he'd really started to wonder. And now,
at four miles, he was thoroughly stumped. They'd entered a narrow, grassy depression
wedged between two slopes, and the wolf was still with him. Never before had he followed
so far. The lieutenant scissored off Cisco's back and stared out at Two Socks. In his
customary way the wolf had stopped, too. As Cisco lowered his head to chomp at the grass
Dunbar began to walk in Two Socks's direction, thinking he would be pressured into
withdrawing. But the head and ears peering above the grass didn't move, and when the
lieutenant finally came to a halt, he was no more than a yard away. The wolf tilted his head
expectantly but otherwise stayed motionless as Dunbar squatted.
“I don't think you're going to be welcome where I'm going,” he said out loud, as though
he were chatting with a trusted neighbor. He looked up at the sun. “It's gonna be hot; why
don't you go on home?” The wolf listened attentively, but still he did not move. The
lieutenant rocked to his feet.
“C'mon, Two Socks,” he said irritably, “go home.” He made a shooing motion with his
hands, and Two Socks scurried to one side.
He shooed again and the wolf hopped, but it was obvious that Two Socks had no
intention of going home.
“All right then,” Dunbar said emphatically, “don't go home. But stay. Stay right there.”
He punctuated this with a wag of his finger and made an about-face. He'd just completed
his turn when he heard the howl. It wasn't full-blown, but it was low and plaintive and
definite. A howl. The lieutenant swung his head around and there was Two Socks, his
muzzle pointed up, his eyes trained on Lieutenant Dunbar, moaning like a pouty child. To
an objective observer it would have been a remarkable display, but to the lieutenant, who
knew him so well, it was simply the last straw.
“You go home!” Dunbar roared, and he charged at Two Socks. Like a son who has
pushed his father too far, the wolf flattened his ears and gave ground, scooting away with
his tail tucked. At the same time Lieutenant Dunbar took off at a run in the opposite
direction, thinking he would get to Cisco, gallop off at full tilt, and ditch Two Socks. He was
tearing through the grass, thinking of his plan, when the wolf came bounding happily
alongside.
“You go home,” the lieutenant snarled, and veered suddenly at his pursuer. Two Socks
hopped straight up like a scared rabbit, leaving his paws in the sudden panic to get away.
When he came to ground the lieutenant was only step behind. He reached out for the base
of Two Socks's tail and gave it squeeze. The wolf shot ahead as if a firecracker had gone
off under him, and Dunbar laughed so hard that he had to stop running. Two Socks
skittered to a halt twenty yards away and stared back over his shoulder with an expression
of such embarrassment that the lieutenant couldn't help but feel sorry for him.
He gave him a wave of good-bye and, still chortling to himself, turned around to find
that Cisco had wandered back the way they'd come, browsing at the choicest grass. The
lieutenant started into an easy trot, unable to keep from laughing at the image of Two
Socks running from his touch. Dunbar jumped wildly as something grabbed at his ankle
and then let go. He spun back, ready to face the unseen attacker. Two Socks was right
there, panting, like a fighter between rounds. Lieutenant Dunbar stared at him for a few
seconds. Two Socks glanced casually in the direction of home, as if thinking the game
might be coming to a close.
“All right then,” the lieutenant said gently, surrendering with his hands.
“You can come, or you can stay. I don't have any more time for this.” It might have
been a tiny noise or it might have been something on the wind. Whatever it was, Two
Socks caught it. He whirled suddenly and stared up the trail with his hackles raised.
Dunbar followed suit and immediately saw Kicking Bird with two other men. They were
close by, watching from the shoulder of a slope. Dunbar waved eagerly and hollered,
“Hello,” as Two Socks began to slink away.
ten Kicking Bird and his friends had been watching for some time, long enough to have
seen the entire show. They had been greatly entertained. Kicking Bird also knew that he
had witnessed something precious, something that had provided a solution to one of the
puzzles surrounding the white man… the puzzle of what to call him. A man should have a
real name, he thought as he rode down to meet Lieutenant Dunbar, particularly when it is
a white who acts like this one. He remembered the old names, like The Man Who Shines
Like Snow, and some of the new ones being bandied about, like Finds The Buffalo. None of
them really fit. Certainly not Jun. He felt certain that this was the right one. It suited the
white soldier's personality. People would remember him by this. And Kicking Bird himself,
with two witnesses to back him up, had been present at the time the Great Spirit revealed
it. He said it to himself several times as he came down the slope. The sound of it was as
good as the name itself. Dances With Wolves.
In a quiet way it was one of the most satisfying days of Lieutenant Dunbar's life.
Kicking Bird's family greeted him with a warmth and respect that made him feel like more
than a guest. They were genuinely happy to see him. He and Kicking Bird settled down for
a smoke that, because of constant but pleasant interruptions, lasted well into the
afternoon. Word of Lieutenant Dunbar's name and how he got it spread through camp with
the usual astonishing speed, and any nagging suspicions the people might have harbored
toward the white soldier evaporated with this inspiring news. He was not a god, but neither
was he like any hair mouth they had encountered. He was a man of medicine. Warriors
dropped by constantly, some of them wanting to say hello, others wanting nothing more
than to lay eyes on Dances With Wolves. The lieutenant recognized most of them now. At
each arrival he would stand and make his short bow. Some of them bowed back. A few
extended their hands, as they had seen him do. There wasn't much they could talk about,
but the lieutenant was getting good with signs, good enough to rehash some of the recent
hunt's high points. This formed the basis for most of the visiting. After a couple of hours
the steady stream of visitors trickled away to no one, and Dunbar was just wondering why
he hadn't seen Stands With A Fist, and if she was on the agenda, when Wind In His Hair
suddenly walked in. Before greetings could be exchanged, each man's attention was drawn
to the items they had traded: the unbuttoned tunic and the gleaming breastplate. For both
of them it was a subtly reassuring sight. As they shook hands Lieutenant Dunbar thought,
I like this fellow; it's good to see him. The same sentiments were foremost in Wind In His
Hair's thoughts, and they sat down together for an amicable chat, though neither man
could understand what the other was saying. Kicking Bird called to his wife for food, and
the trio soon devoured a lunch of pemmican and berries. They ate without saying a word.
After the meal another pipe was packed and the two Indians fell into a conversation that
the lieutenant could not divine. By their gestures and speech, however, he guessed they
were dealing with something beyond idle chitchat. They seemed to be planning some
activity, and he was not surprised when, at the end of their talk, both men stood up and
asked him to follow as they went outside. Dunbar trailed them to the rear of Kicking Bird's
tepee, where a cache of material was waiting for them. A neat stack of limber willow poles
was sitting next to a high pile of dried brush. The two men had another, even briefer
discussion, then set to work. When the lieutenant saw what was taking shape, he lent a
hand here and there, but before he could contribute much, the material had been
transformed into a shady arbor four or five feet high. A small portion had been left
uncovered to afford an entrance, and Lieutenant Dunbar was shown inside first. There
wasn't enough room to stand up, but once he was down, he found the place roomy and
peaceful. The brush made good cover against the sun and was sheer enough to allow for a
free flow of air. It wasn't until he'd finished this quick inspection that he realized Kicking Bird and Wind In His Hair had vanished. A week ago he would have been uncomfortable
with their sudden desertion. But, like the Indians, he was no longer suspicious. The
lieutenant was content to sit quietly against the surprisingly strong back wall, listening to
the now familiar sounds of Ten Bears's camp as he awaited developments. They were not
long in coming. Only a few minutes had passed before he heard footsteps approaching.
Kicking Bird duck-walked through the entrance and seated himself far enough away to
leave a full space between them. A shadow falling across the entrance told Dunbar that
someone else was waiting to come inside. Without thinking, he assumed it was Wind In His
Hair. Kicking Bird called out softly. The shadow shifted to the accompaniment of tinkling
bells, and Stands With A Fist stooped through the doorway. Dunbar scooted to one side,
making room as she maneuvered between them, and in the few seconds it took her to
settle, he saw much that was new. The bells were sewn on the sides of finely beaded
moccasins. Her doeskin dress looked like an heirloom, something well cared for and not for
every day. The bodice was sprinkled with small, thick bones arranged in rows. They were
elk's teeth. The wrist closest to him wore a bracelet of solid brass. Around her neck was a
choker of the same pipe-bone he wore on his chest. Her hair, fresh and fragrant, hung
down her back in a single braid, exposing more of the high-cheeked, distinctly browed face
than he had seen before. She looked more delicate and feminine to him now. And more
white. It dawned on the lieutenant then that the arbor had been built as a place for them
to meet. And in the time it took her to sit, he realized how much he had anticipated seeing
her again. She still wouldn't look at him, and while Kicking Bird mumbled something to her,
he made up his mind to take the initiative and say hello. It so happened that they turned
their heads, opened their mouths, and said the word at precisely the same time. The two
hellos collided in the space between them, and the speakers recoiled awkwardly at their
accidental beginning. Kicking Bird saw a favorable omen in the accident. He saw two people
of like mind. Because this was exactly what he hoped for, it struck him as ironic. The
medicine man chuckled to himself. Then he pointed to Lieutenant Dunbar and grunted, as if
saying, “Go ahead… you first.”
“Hello,” he said pleasantly. She lifted her head. Her expression was businesslike, but he
could see nothing of the hostility that had been there before.
“Hulo,” she replied.
They sat a long time in the arbor that day, most of it spent reviewing the few simple
words they had exchanged at their first formal session. Toward sundown, when all three
had wearied of the constant, stumbling repetitions, the English translation for her Indian
name suddenly came to Stands With A Fist.
It so excited her that she began immediately to teach it to Lieutenant Dunbar. First she
had to get across what she wanted. She pointed to him and said, “Jun,” then pointed to
herself and said nothing. In the same motion she held up a finger that said, “Stop. I will
show you.” The pattern had been for him to perform whatever action she asked for, then
guess the action's word in English. She wanted him to stand, but that was impossible in the
arbor, so she hustled both men outside, where they would have full freedom of movement.
Lieutenant Dunbar guessed “rise,” “rises,” “gets up,” and “on my feet” before he hit
“stands.”
“With” was not so hard, “a” had already been covered, and he got “fist” on the first try.
After he had it in English, she taught him the Comanche. From there, in rapid succession,
he mastered Wind In His Hair, Ten Bears, and Kicking Bird. Lieutenant Dunbar was excited.
He asked for something to make marks, and using a sliver of charcoal, he wrote the four
names in phonetic Comanche on a strip of thin, white bark. Stands With A Fist kept her
reserve throughout. But inwardly she was thrilled. The English words were showering in her
head like sparks as thousands of doors, locked up for so long, swung open. She was
delirious with the excitement of learning. Each time the lieutenant ran down the list written
on his scrap of bark and each time he came close to pronouncing the names as they should
be pronounced, she encouraged him with the suggestion of a smile and said the word
“yes.” For his part, Lieutenant Dunbar did not have to see her little smile to know that the
encouragement was heartfelt. He could hear it in the sound of the word and he could see it
in the power of her pale brown eyes. To hear him say these words, in English and
Comanche, meant something special to her. Her inward thrill was tingling all about them.
The lieutenant could feel it.
She was not the same woman, so sad and lost, that he had found on the prairie. That
moment was now something left behind. It made him happy to see how far she had come.
Best of all was the little piece of bark he held in his hands. He grasped it firmly,
determined not to let it slip away. It was the first section of a map that would guide him
into whatever future he had with these people. So many things would be possible from now
on. It was Kicking Bird, however, who was most profoundly affected by this turn of events.
To him it was a miracle of the highest order, on a par with attending something all
consuming, like birth or death. His dream had become reality. When he heard the
lieutenant say his name in Comanche, it was as though an impenetrable wall had suddenly
turned to smoke. And they were walking through. They were communicating. With equal
force his view of Stands With A Fist had enlarged. She was no longer a Comanche. In
making herself a bridge for their words, she had become something more. Like the
lieutenant, he heard it in the sound of her English words and he saw it in the new power of
her eyes. Something had been added, something that was missing before, and Kicking Bird
knew what it was. Her long-buried blood was running again, her undiluted white blood. The
impact of these things was more than even Kicking Bird could bear, and like a professor
who knows when it is time for his pupils to take a rest, he told Stands With A Fist that this
was enough for one day. A trace of disappointment flashed on her face. Then she dropped
her head and nodded submissively. At that moment, however, a wonderful thought
occurred to her. She caught Kicking Bird's eye and respectfully asked if they might do one
more thing. She wanted to teach the white soldier his name.
It was a good idea, so good that Kicking Bird could not refuse his adopted daughter. He
told her to continue. She remembered the word right away. She could see it, but she
couldn't speak it. And she couldn't remember how she had done it as a girl. The men
waited while she tried to remember. Then Lieutenant Dunbar unwittingly raised his hand to
brush at a gnat that was bothering his ear, and she saw it all again. She grabbed the
lieutenant's hand as it hung in space and let the fingertips of her other hand rest cautiously
on his hip. And before either man could react, she led Dunbar into a creaky but
unmistakable memory of waltz. After a few seconds she pulled away demurely, leaving
Lieutenant Dunbar in a state of shock. He had to struggle to remember the point of the
exercise. A light went off in his head. Then it jumped into his eyes, and like the only boy in
class who knows the answer, he smiled at his teacher.
From there it was easy to get the rest. Lieutenant Dunbar went to one knee and wrote
the name at the bottom of his bark grammar book. His eyes lingered on the way it looked
in English. It seemed bigger than just a name. The more he looked at it, the more he liked
it. He said it to himself. Dances With Wolves. The lieutenant came to his feet, bowed
shortly in Kicking Bird's direction, and, as a butler might announce the arrival of a dinner
guest, humbly and without fanfare, he said the name once more. This time he said it in
Comanche.
“Dances With Wolves.”
Dances With Wolves stayed in Kicking Bird's lodge that night. He was exhausted but,
as sometimes happens, was too tired to sleep. The day's events hopped about in his mind
like popcorn in a skillet. When he finally began the drift into unconsciousness, the
lieutenant slipped into the twilight of a dream he had not had since he was very young.
Surrounded by stars, he was floating through the cold, silent void of space, a weightless
little boy alone in a world of silver and black. But he was not afraid. He was snug and warm
and under the covers of a four-poster bed, and to drift like a single seed in all the universe,
even if for eternity, was not a hardship. It was a joy. That was how he fell asleep on his
first night in the Comanches' ancestral summer camp.
In the months that followed, Lieutenant Dunbar would fall asleep many times in Ten
Bears's camp. He returned to Fort Sedgewick often, but the visits were prompted primarily
by guilt, not desire. Even while he was there he knew he was maintaining the thinnest of
appearances. Yet he felt compelled to do so. He knew there was no logical reason to stay
on. Certain now that the army had abandoned the post and him along with it, he thought of
returning to Fort Hays. He had already done his duty. In fact, his devotion to the post and
the U.S. Army had been exemplary. He could leave with his head held high. What held him
was the pull of another world, a world he had just begun to explore. He didn't know exactly
when it happened, but it came to him that his dream of being posted on the frontier, a
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